


The Line

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs in a Car, Cunnilingus, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings, Fellatio, Feminist Themes, Impala, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Porn with Feelings, Protective Dean Winchester, Reader-Insert, Sex, Sexual Content, Wall Sex, dilemmas in feminism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a strong independent woman.  He's a strong independent man, who also had a protective streak that runs through his DNA.  Surely you can figure this out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Line

**Author's Note:**

> Request from @snoopyspn : …I’m in the car with dean and I decide to surprise him and go down on him while he’s still driving and the whole thing ends in hot sex. … (and) … I’m guessing coming back from a hunt and having Dean save us is making us see his protective side and makes us want him and at the same time, being the strong independent woman that we are, we hate him for it. Mixed feelings and just him being so hot when he’s mad I guess :))).

You’d seen the way his face changed, even laying on your side with your system interrupted and struggling.  You’d been hit square in the gut, winded with a circuit breaking blow. He checked again and then his lower lip cracked it, eyebrows picking the target and every limb tapped in for the wrath.

This time, it had been scary. You’d scrambled backwards like a broken spider, wrists slapping the floorboards, gaping and arching your back to force your diaphragm to give and work, and Dean created a gap in his own fight, frikken shoved his vampire away to get to yours.  Yours was down, by the way, short a hand and screaming thanks to you, but you were slightly worse off.  Dean stormed over and beheaded your target, flowing and impressive with fire and precision, and turned back to his own to finish the job.  There was a moment where he looked at you just to check you were functioning, teeth bared in concern, always with that lilt of anger - “Y’ok kiddo?”  - and you’d nodded emphatically as you wheezed air into your body.

When the last vamp stepped through the door, just as Dean was flicking blood off his blade, you were able to use the wall and get up, found yourself more useful than you expected, and gave the slightest of nods to invite the vampire to meet you.  Dean, a few feet before you, shifted sideways, getting his shoulder between you and your target and you knew you couldn’t get this done cleanly now, so quickly resigned yourself to backing him up, again.

 _He would’ve done the same if I were Sam,_ you remind yourself.   _And Sam’s a fucking hectare of hunter.  I must’ve looked pretty bad too._

You’d given up hiding your ugly faces weeks ago - searing fear, or terrible pain, the wretched tears - no point covering that up just because Dean doesn’t seem to have an ugly face for anything.  So maybe something about your panic at not being able to breathe was in your expression, maybe he’d responded to that.  Maybe that’s why he’d rained down with all that raw fury and force.  All that he is that makes monsters hesitate.

You licked your lips for the umpteenth time and pushed back into the leather again, picking at the Impala’s window frame as you tried to shift your perspective from frustrated and infuriatingly turned on, to sensibly objective.  It was like trying to put a cat in a bucket.

You could be a hunter, your own hunter, and good at it and proud of it, and still accept working with a protective guy like Dean Winchester.  What you couldn’t tell, or even begin to measure really, was whether he was _overly_ protective.  And with each hunt that passed you’d collect another moment when he got between you and whatever - whatever you’d have just figured out were he not there - and made sure he made a difference, usually in the most impressive way you’d ever seen.

 _This is working with someone_ , you told yourself.   _With._  You give, and take and share.  You’re sensible.  You don’t go flaring up about territory, or kill rates, or being handled.  But he was still outdoing you 2:1 ever since you’d started with them.

“You okay over there?”

Actually, it’s not quite working _with_ someone.

You glance over a Dean, underlit by the car’s dash in the early evening.  The cabin still smelled of burger grease and you had maybe 90 minutes before the bunker was near.  

“Yeah, I’m good,” you tell him. “Just thinking.”  

Seconds later though your expression has returned to an intense frown at the darkness ahead while you try to gauge how much you’re making room for his interference, and if that’s what you wanted to call it, and whether you could separate the whole thing from how distractingly attractive you found him.  Would it be worse if he didn’t-

 _Fuck it,_ you think.   _Strong independent women don’t throw tantrums about people being helpful in difficult situations._  You take a deep breath and keep yourself from questioning things further.

You look back to see if there’s a blanket behind the seat and notice Dean, his cheeks high, eyebrows pinched, chewing the inside of his cheek over something.

“Are you okay?” you check.

“Hm? Yeah!  Yeah I’m fine,” he rushes.  “Just… yeah.  All good Kiddo.”

“Whatcha thinkin’ bout?” you ask, watching.

“Just… realising I didn’t know what was wrong with you then,” he says.

“When I was knocked down?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t tell how to help.”

“You did help; you dealt with the monster,” you tell him.  “Fixing me wouldn’t have come first anyway.”

“Hmmm,” he agrees, unconvincingly, and continues on whatever path his mind had chosen.

“Maybe you can step back a bit.”  Here you go. “You know I’ve done this for years without you, survived pretty well.  Maybe trust that I will keep surviving.”

Dean scoffs and goes back to asking the road questions with his eyebrows.

“You can, you know,” you say again, trying to keep the indignation from your tone. “Fight next to me.”

“I do! I’m right there beside-”

“No, you’re always in front.” Yep, you’re gonna say this. “Try fighting by me yeah? Like literally beside me.”

“What?” He’s annoyed, defensive. “I’m like 6-foot, I’m bigger, it’s stupid to not get in there-”

“There is no way,” you declare, “that one-at-a-timing it is better than the two of us making a coordinated effort. You know how I fight, and I get a regular eyeful of your style. How formidable would we be together, huh? Let me work with you!” You scowl back at the road, realising how it really would require him letting you do that. The tedium.

“Oh Kid, just-”

“Quit callin’ me Kid!” you grizzle tensely.  “I’m your age for crap’s sake.”  

He clamps his jaw shut, a low key panic edging over him, and lets his eyes glance about while he waits to see what you’ll say.

You sigh and chew a lip in regret: he doesn’t mean any harm.  “Just Y/N, or Y/N/N is fine.”

“Y/N/N is what Sam calls you,” he says in disgust.

“What’s wrong with that?  It’d be less distracting than Kiddo in the middle of a fight.  Might help you calm down about gate-keeping my violence.”

“I’m never gonna to do that, Y/N.”

“You jerk.” He’s not even considering it.  

You slump a bit, put your elbow on the window frame and tooth at a thumbnail. He huffs breath out his nose and you make no sign of saving him.

“I just… can’t,” he groans, resigned. “Not yet.”

You look over and for a moment you see how he’s telling the truth and doing his best to be defiant about it.  He couldn’t keep himself from getting in front of the monsters if he tried, if he promised even.  He almost seems a bit sorry.

He just does everything so hard.  

Okay.  Well.  He’s good at everything else.  Just not this.

You undo your seatbelt and slide over, shoulder to shoulder as his hands grip the wheel.  He glances once, curious, while you look at him and properly take in his profile, more than you’ve let yourself before.

“What?” he breathes, a kind of gentle surprise on him at you being so close.

“You really can’t help it, can you?”

He takes a deep breath but can’t properly let it go.  “What’s that?”

“Being protective.  Maybe more than necessary.”

He deflates, rolls his eyes.  He drops the arm that’s closer onto his lap, like a gesture of exasperation, and even though he rests his other elbow on the door, the arms between you still jostle with the roll of the car.

“I know how determined I am,” you say, “to do things my way.  I can’t imagine you’re much different… so I won’t insist.”

He glances and nods, hides his surprise.  

“I can still call you Kiddo?”

“No. You need to change that.”

He pinches his lips together for a moment.  

You clear your throat and cut him some slack.  “Just… I see how hard you work.  You carry a lot, and you don’t have to add me to your load…  You can share.  With me.”

More nodding and a deeper breath, preparing.  “It scared me.  Is all.  Seeing you like that.”  He’s conscious of keeping his leg in his lane, not fishing for anything more.  “I find it hard to see you hurt.”

“Yeah, me too,” you confess.  “But I remember that you’re strong.”

“Yeah, that’s what I tell myself about you too.”

You lean over his shoulder and kiss him kindly on the cheek, bumping a little as the car goes off centre in his reaction.  He notices how his chest brims, how gentle your lips are - just as he thought - but you don’t register his nervousness at all.

A few weeks ago, there’d been a changeling job that’d gotten particularly grim and when he’d spoken to you afterwards, held your shaking hands in his, his voice dropped to a soft, smooth tenor, firm and calming and there just for you.  When he’d spoken to you then is when you’d started to recover, and this moment, when your eye contact catches and he says “What was that for?” the space around you pulls close.

You shrug and smile and your heart flips out.   _Strong independent women can kiss a friend on the cheek._

“Thank you,” you say tightly, then clear your throat again and shift straight in your seat.  “It’s infuriating but I can appreciate it… so thank you, you bossy fucker.”

He grins, “Nah, I missed it! That was too quick!”  You laugh as he lays it on.  “Come on, give us another,” and grins some more, no hope at all that he’s getting another kiss.

You smile and shift to lean over and kiss his happy cheek as his eyebrows fly upwards, your lips right in front of his earlobe, and he folds his right arm to cup the side of your face.  The fingertips scoot into your hair, brush over your eyebrow a little, until his palm finds your jawline and keeps you from leaning away too far.

“I call you Kiddo ‘cause if I called you sweetheart,” he shares quietly, “you’d probably kick my ass for being a sexist jerk.  And I’d let you if that was why…”

Your breath is bouncing off his collar as you listen to him talk, and you can smell the day on him all the way back to this morning’s shower and shave.

His hand still keeps you there, even though it’s probably awkward for you.  You have an extreme close up of him and he probably thinks you can’t see much, but you can see plenty - eyelashes, freckles, a nervous tongue changing the shape of his cheeks and mouth. He looks hopeful and brave.

If you’re wondering what the line looks like, it’s the right side seam of Dean’s jeans and you cross it when your fingers find his warm thigh.

He licks his lips and slides his driving hand, adjusting his hold on the wheel so he’s gripping at 12 o’clock. He pushes himself up a little and his right hand finds your thigh too, warm and curved to fit.

Dean turns his face toward you, just for a second, unable to really look away from the road, but manages to glance at your lips, and then again at your eyes.  You lean towards the wheel a bit so he can see you better.

“You want to call me sweetheart?” you say quietly.  “You call every woman sweetheart.”

“Huh,” he scoffs ruefully, “he-hyeah, well, not like that.”

Really? You put your nose to his skin and let your lips tickle where you kissed last, saying “Then what’s something else you could call me?” and come back to where you were to look at him.

He takes a moment to respond, his thumb rubs back and forth on your jeans, then his fingers squeeze a little, apparently hitting a nerve connected to your heart, making you blink. _A strong independent woman can show a strong independent man how she really feels._ Let’s give him something to protect.

You slide your hand over his thigh so that your fingers reach well over the inner seam, thumb pointed at his pockets, and he sits to attention for it.

“I’d…” he swallows, hopeful, “I’d call you Baby, if you wanted.”

You lean in again to talk. “What would I call you?” you whisper, like the engine isn’t even there, trickling your breath over his ear.

“Same,” he answers quickly, before you can move and see him properly again.  So you’re looking at him when you say “Baby,” but he can’t tell if you’re checking, or naming him, or trying it on for size.

His gaze gets snagged on yours, eventually drops to your lips, and the car bounces as the wheels slip off the tarmac.  Dean swerves back in surprise, scowling at the miles of straight road ahead, and you laugh a little.

“I’m pulling over,” he says.

“No don’t,” you plead, “just, um… maybe…” your lips go back to that sweet spot you were working before, “let me…  do something.”

“Uh, okay,” he says and takes a deep breath.

You kiss at the end of his sideburn and murmur “So have you been stealing my kills to make me watch you fight.  Tryin’a impress me.”

“Nah I’m just tryin’a get some more a’that bedside manner you got,” he says and sucks a breath as you nudge and nuzzle behind his ear, let your lips nibble the stubble.  “You’re good at patchin’ me up.”

You wrap your left hand under his bicep, grab as much meat as you can, and press it to your chest, then firmly slide your right palm around his leg and up a little, almost wedging the web of your hand into the creases.  You duck under the bolt of his jaw and start working toungey kisses into the soft corner and down the muscle a little, noting the way his system speeds up.

“Shshshshshit,” he whispers, tilting for you and feeling like half of him’s levitating your way.  “You’re killin’ me Kid.”

You pull back and look at him flatly.

“Sorry!” he remembers.  “Sorry,” he tries a shy, cheesy grin.

From under his armpit, you turn your hand and reach up his chest, dragging down the necklines of his shirts and he has to move his arm a bit so slides it around to your back, pulls your shirts up so he can feel some skin above your hip.  He’s loving this, the way you’re moving him so slightly, so tight in the things you hold.  

His leg is a great weight, heavy and soft, but underneath you push against his upper thigh, almost on his ass, use all the strength in your fingers to show your reach.  Just the sight of your arm, strong and reaching under him like this has him feeling a little at mercy.

You drag your lips over the skin you can see, nibble on his collarbone, and ask “You ever get much action in the driver’s seat?”

“Oh, ‘s’been a while,” he thinks.  “Never enough time from bar to motel.”

You slide your lower hand to the centre, push the heel of your palm along the root of his cock, the great ridge below his balls, and he sits up even straighter.  “Think you can operate heavy machinery while something happens?”

“Mmyep, yeah, I can give it a red hot go,” he looks intensely ahead, like he’s doing a deal with the road to help him out with another 10 minutes of magnetically straight goddamn road.

You kiss beneath his jaw again, your tongue running calligraphy on his neck just to hear his breath quicken under the suggestion.  The button on his jeans pops easily and you inch the zip down.  Then, rather than touching anything there, you slip your fingers under his shirt and up his belly, pulling on his waist in broad strokes, trickling your touch up to his nipple and lightly wiping the pad of your finger - little dry licks - over that giving patch of skin until it resists.  Dean drops his jaw a little, a moan breaking the breath, so you head on over to the other side and see if you can make things better or worse for him. Both it would seem, because he groans “Can’t keep my eyes open,” and rocks against the seat.

“You fucken better,” you say.  “Guess how much I don’t wanna go out impaled on a steering column?  Even if it is coz I’m going down on Dean Winchester in his gorgeous Impala.”

“Oooohfuck,” he sighs.  You feel him lick his lips, swallow and steal himself into some sort of braced position, just in time too because he jolts all over when your fingertips brush the tip of his cock through the briefs. “Fuck!” he pops quietly.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” he says firmly.  “Just, fuck.”

“Fair enough.”

You unbutton his plaid shirt and pick up the hem of his tshirt.  He shifts to let you pull it all the way up to his chin and gets the hint when you offer it tight across his lips.  He takes an inch or so of fabric and holds it in his teeth to keep it out of the way, revealing the sweet creases across his scrunched tummy.  Below that, his briefs are full so you lower the waistband and watch his cock lift up like it’s taking a first breath.

As gently as you can, you pull the elastic down and hook your fingers over it, keeping it away, but Dean manages to lift his hips and you take the suggestion, pulling his pants down his thighs.

You slide your arm around the back of his waist, hugging him, and kiss him on the cheek one last time before telling him, “I’m gonna make you come, okay?”

He looks at you for as long as he can, collecting evidence for why you’re doing this, and you try to show him the heat you have, that it’s not just gratitude or the fuck, but the gift and hope.  That and you can’t take your eyes off the way the fabric between his teeth pulls his lip down.

He grits “Yeah, okay,” then nods and starts to relax and smile.

You smile back, kiss him high on his cheekbone and feel his eyelashes on your skin. He leans into it and you nudge him, humming “Hope it’s not the last time Sweetheart”, then settle yourself down to meet the head of his cock.

The warmth of your breath fans over his lap and you breathe him in, caress the curls, look at the proportions in the dim light.  You lick your lips a few times, kiss the tip as it rests on his stomach, and then you start.

You take your damn sweet time, too.  Slow tongue over the top, little dips into the crease, nibbly kisses around the bell and down the underside, wide mouthed drags back up, fat tongue laps and tip-touching traces, more nibbling around the head and a tight ring of lips around the ridge.  It’s all decadent and generous and Dean matches it with his slightly muffled language, something like _Fuck! Fuck… shit.  Jesus, Y/N!  That… yeah, Jesus that’s…  Fffffffffuck-_ and it’s far more rewarding than you care to admit right at this moment.

Another decent lap over your lips and you take him in and plunge, and Dean sucks in air like you’ve dropped ice cubes down his back.  The car lurches slightly and he curses a little differently, then gets his shit together as you start a steady rhythm, wet, sloppy and full of promise.  His hand on your hip starts to hold tighter and tighter, then releases and grips as you swirl your tongue between dunks.  Dean loses his bite on the shirt.  “Y/N!  Shshshit, Y/N, I’m-  uh fuck, I can’t-”

You stroke his balls, then cup them a little and squeeze his waist with your other hand, trying to let him know you know.  You let your tongue go and take more, take enough to make you frown and wince, and wrap your hand around the difference to help.  He’s just gasping a breath on each beat, every other one a little _Ah!_ and then you swallow around him and he bursts _God-Da-!_ and curls, grabbing the back of your head as he pulses in your mouth and you swallow it down.  You relax and wait, taking what ebbs from him, feeling his warm and heavy hands on your head as he gathers and regathers your hair and eventually you can kiss him sweet and nice and lay him to rest and recover.

Then, with a start, you realise there are two hands on your head.  You pop up to see outside. “We’ve stopped!”

“Yeh,” he puffs, his head fallen back onto the seat while the engine purrs idle.  “It’s a rest area.”

You look around a little more, peering through the dark.  “No it’s not.”

“Is now,” he swallows.  He has a hand loose on your shoulder, one hooked on the wheel, and squints at the roof before looking at you.  He smiles, amazed, puts his hand on your ear, then cups the other and pulls you in for a kiss, slack and hot but soon growing fervent and tight.  His lips are so full, searing against yours and slippery smooth with his tongue between, tasting as he rolls you against his mouth.  “I can’t believe you fucking did that,” he mumbles.

You smile and kiss some more and he smiles back hard enough to start laughing.  “Fuck, let’s not go back to the bunker tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I gotta repay the favour on that,” he says and turns off the engine.  He turns himself towards you, ignoring how awkward it is side-by-side.  

“Dean,” you say around his lips, “this really isn’t a rest area.”

He hooks his fingers behind your right knee and pulls it across him a little, turning and rolling so he can get between your legs as he pushes you backwards to lay on the seat.  He buries himself in your neck and you lose yourself in the feeling of his ear against your jaw, his short hair under your fingers, his nose and breath in the dip of your neck, and you clutch at him.

“Dean, seriously, okay? We’ll stop at the next town, for sure, but this is really dangerous on the road,” you pat him on the back and try not to rub yourself into his body.  

He hums hungrily, nuzzles your ear hard enough to turn your head to the leather. “You serious though? We’ll get a room?”

He lifts his head and the vintage light of the dash illuminates the new way he’s looking at you.  It’s bloody inspiring. “Yes,” you promise.

“All right then,” he says. It’s barely three sounds, but it’s low and firm, hits you wherever there’s liquid, full of intentions about you and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard him say.

He pushes himself upright, a thoughtful smile tugging at his mouth, and pulls you up beside him before pinning your leg to his with a firm grip.

He starts the car, quickly moves through the gears to get it up to speed, the engine like a soundtrack of anticipation, and resettles his hold on your thigh. You wrap your hands around his arm likes it’s a gym rope.

You were ready for that to be a once off, a regret you’d wear, so you’re not sure where this is going even though you can tell, just from how tight you’re holding on, how much you want things to continue beyond a motel room.

By the time you do get to the next town, that light relief in him has gone.  His hand has begun a steady flex on the inside of your thigh and you can see the muscle in his jaw roll along with it.  You’re spending most of your energy not wishing for something more than a quick fuck.

As you get things from the car, he meets you at the trunk with a grinding focus, low and heated, like your conversation is held between your bellies.  He brushes fingertips over your elbow as he asks “You care what kinda room I get?”

“Can you request one that doesn’t stink? Less than three major stains.”

“I’m on it,” he says and kisses the side of your head as he pushes past you.

You take both bags and lean against the wall between two rooms, watch him go and get a room so that you can fuck your coworker. So your coworker can fuck you. _A strong independent woman is allowed to make mistakes._

As he returns, he doesn’t really look at you, just watches his hand flip the keys about. When he does get close enough for you to bother pushing off from the wall, he scoops his arm behind you, hand around your waist, and kisses your head again just like before - firm and pressing - as you walk the few doors to your own.

He unlocks the room and walks right in, jangles the keys a bit more and looks around aimlessly as you put the bags at the end of the bed to your left. You kick the door closed and try to think of a good question in case he’s having second thoughts.

He comes back to throw the keys on the table to your right and steps towards you, crowding you a bit before lifting his gaze to yours like he has to drag it from your body. He keeps stepping, walking you back to the wall as your noses do-si-do. His hand cups your neck just before impact, hips  squarely pushing against you and gets both thumbs in front of your ears to tilt your head to his and kiss you. It’s like a kiss underlined, in bold, in plain language that _he wants you_.

He slides his lips to your cheek and presses his forehead on yours, finds your waist with a hand. You’ve been focusing on keeping your eyes open, catching all your good fortune, and recording everything you hear.

He pauses then, and you’re not sure why.  

“Really? Against a wall? I thought I was special,” you stir, your nerves making you stupid.

“You? Nah,” he says. “You’re just like all the rest. A regular girl. Haven’t scared the shit outta me at all.”

He lays a hand below your ass and the pressure of his fingers magically guides your knee up to his waist, like some sort of woman whisperer, and you grab onto that pulling arm just to feel the muscle work.

“Haven’t thought about fucking you into a wall,” he tells you, “haven’t imagined how you’d sound, not once.” Then bends his knees to scoop his hips under yours, moving your other leg around him as he nearly straightens and slides you up the wallpaper a little.

You’re crushed against him and you suck in a breath at things being both twinged sweet and a little uncomfortable.  He gets his palms under your ass to hoist you up and everything locks in perfectly, your thighs in his waist, his hardness flush against your heat where you can tilt towards it, your arms around his shoulders, and the two of you suddenly nose to nose.

“Meanwhile, I’m probably just another guy to you,” he says.

“One of millions,” you say quietly, running your fingers up the back of his head.  

There’s a moment where the blood in your ears pauses, like a fat throb, because he’s looked straight into your eyes and scared you still.  It’s like he’s seeing the stuff inside you, like he’s looking through the television into your room.

“Couldn’t even pick me out of a line-up,” he murmurs.

“Nope. You’re terribly generic.”  You wish you weren’t whispering, but damned if you can get enough breath to make a proper noise.  “I’m not impressed. Not swayed in the slightest.  Boring old Don Winchester.”

“It’s Dean.”

“Dean.   _Sorry_. …Lovely name.”

A few creases appear by his eyes.  “Don’t suppose you’d take your pants off for me then huh.”

You tsk softly and slowly breathe in, and then out, like it might be a sigh, like maybe this is the greatest inconvenience ever asked of you.  “…if I have to.”

Dean lets you down, steps back a bit, and lets his gaze wander over your face as you kick off your shoes, reach your hand and foot behind your butt to pull your socks off, and undo your jeans before working them down your legs. He doesn’t have the sass you thought he’d have, no tongue in the back of his teeth or dancing eyebrows; just soft lips and an open want, hungry and grateful.

He steps close again, gets his palms on your hips and spreads his fingers wide down your thighs.  He tucks the tips of each thumb into the elastic of your underwear and runs them from back to front and back.  “There’s a condom in my back pocket,” he says quietly and you slide a hand in each, pretending to fish around while he smirks at you grabbing his extremely ungeneric ass.  You pull it out and tap his lower lip with the foil corner, encouraging him to take it between his teeth, then kiss under his jaw and down his neck as you undo his jeans again, push them out of the way along with his boxers and carefully free his cock.  He rolls on the protection and goes back to your underwear, this time working the fabric down far enough that it falls to the floor, then runs his palms up and down your bare hips, over the skin that’s usually covered.

You think he’s going to box you in again - which you’re kind of loving with the room light behind him and his size, making it feel like things might still be secret - but he flicks off his outer shirts and pushes off your jacket, leaves your low cut t-shirt and bra on, and you don’t remove his tee either but get your hands under it, high on his hot stomach.  You’re both breathing firmly, warmly, looking over each other and watching the way the other gets more impatient as the minutes pass.  

“We’ve done everything back to front,” you smile.

“I know, I don’t plan on asking you on a date for weeks,” he smirks, thumbing over your cheek.

His knuckles graze over the hair between your legs, passing a few times before giving a little pressure.

“Lift me up,” you tell him.

He twitches a little in curiosity, gently asking, “Wha- you don’t want me to-”

“How long is it since I had your cock between my lips?”

Dean groans shortly and squeezes your ribs a little.  “That awesome event happened less than an hour ago.”

“Yeah, well that’s a whole freaking a day in vagina years, so trust me.  Lift me up.”  You put your hands on his shoulders, readying yourself.

Dean leans down a little, gets a firm grip with a palm right beneath each cheek and slowly lifts, sliding you up the wall. You steadily wrap your legs around his waist and breathe in sharply when the head of his erection is pressed between your clit and his belly.  He reaches with a long finger, tests the give towards your core, and finds wetness smeared about.  His lips part and it seems like his mind has gone somewhere for a moment - probably to where your mind is too while he massages what’s already aching for intrusion.

He has your weight, his hands pushing the muscle and fat into everything already so sensitive, and he holds you still as he tilts his hips, letting his cock pull away from between you, then rights himself again so it finds the middle of your heat.

“Wait,” you gasp softly, and he pauses, resting his waist against you to help keep you up.  You place your hand on his cheek, guiding him toward you and brush your open mouths together, lips matching and breath meeting, kissing him as gently as you can and licking a little as you press a little harder.  You close in on it, sealing your breath and just let yourself feel him for a moment, listen to him breathe, smell his skin, then trace the tip of your tongue under the shine of his upper lip.  He moans quietly, then leans into it, pushes the kiss into you and you peek at him, surprised to see a furrowed brow on him.

You move your hands, press your fingertips into his shoulders and wiggle your hips back and forth, encouraging him. He slows his kissing, letting his lips rest on yours, and tentatively lowers you onto his cock, watching for any sign to stop.

The shape of him first, the delicious blunt press of the head, leads the way for thickness, the fine skin tripping on your texture through the thin sheath.

You grit your teeth and grunt “Oh! God!” gulping air and frowning in the last moments, and when his curls are against you, you slide your hands so your forearms press across the back of his shoulders. His breadth demands that you give and it’s exactly the sensation you’ve been waiting for - something of him in you, reaching up, pushing things aside, and everything around him purrs in tight satisfaction.

“Oh that is a gift right there,” he moans and lazily kisses you while he waits for a sign to move.

“Fuck, take your shirt off,” you say, starting the task.  It’s quickly done and you yank yours up your back as you lean up, bra slipped off in no time.  As soon as you’re free he’s kissing you, open hand on the side of your face to hold you close as he leans you back to the wall and thrusts.

It’s rough and thumping, both of you bursting _Aah!_ from the impact.  

“Oh fuck, that’s it,” you gasp, tightening your limbs around him to press all that smooth skin to yours and feel firm warmth tuck itself under your breasts.

“Yeah? You okay?”

“Mmm, yeah, s’perfect,” you promise and put your lips to his cheek.

He goes again, and it’s noisy again, good enough to make him pause “Okay, hang on,” he swallows and resettles his hold a bit, shifts his feet.  You don’t have to wait long, but when he’s ready and set, he _goes_.

Your jaw drops, right by his ear, and the wallpaper starts to catch on the skin of your back as he rocks into you, short, fast and hard, knocking your hips and pushing you apart.  His voice bounces out of him, deep and honest and soon it’s louder, deeper, feels like it’s getting into your chest by rebounding off the wall.  The sound of him enjoying this so much, your skin sliding so tightly, belly to belly, breath all over your neck and shoulders, it’s a full loop of sensation so you close your eyes and take it all.

You can feel him quickening, going harder and harder, and he kisses your neck, teeth below your ear, then moves so he can pin your head to the wall with his, lips locked and his short moans push over your cheek as he comes, gasping for breath with his tongue heavy against yours and lips tingling.  It feels gorgeous, rough and tripping, with his hands gripping you tight and his body driving into yours.  

There’s a cinching though, right across your hips, from him fucking into your g-spot where it hasn’t been wrung out yet.  He kisses you hard, devouring, and gets a hand under your armpit, lifts you up and off himself, so he can latch onto your breast, and moves you to the bed.  You gasp Dean! at some point, either from him disappearing from within you, or lifting you so sharply, or when his lips trigger fresh nerves, or maybe it’s when you bounce onto the mattress.

There’s a second to realise your feet can touch the floor before he’s gone from your hold, dragged himself down through your grasping hands, and thrusts three fingers into you, sparking a sound from the base of your throat. He nudges his mouth between your lower lips, shaking his head a little to get in there and you can feel his jaw open wide against the curve of your pelvic bone, a great gluttonous helping that almost hurts his neck as he tries to get the back of his tongue onto you for one full lap.  Then he sucks your clitoris and its swollen surrounds into his mouth and firmly flicks his tongue back and forth across it as he curls his fingers to rub from inside.  

You fill your lungs and feel pushed over a roller-coaster crest, your ears ringing a discordant interference as though you’re upside-down. He increases the pressure inside and you arch your back, grab his head and he listens to your orgasm surprise you - “aaaAAAHAHADEEE-!” Moments are lost while your lower belly bursts bright and afterwards you’re panting, voice breaking through it, and you think to move your fingers over his head, just to keep from hurting him.  The vibration of Dean’s deep moan makes you shudder under him before sucking in another deep breath, and another, and that hum in your body settles into a sweet major key.

Dean’s cheek is resting high on your thigh, his breath warming the other as he sits on his feet on the carpet, and his hands light brush your legs. Slowly, you slide yourself toward him, feel his palms slide up your butt, then to your lower back to support you as you pour yourself into his lap and lean against the bed.  His warmth radiates and you brush your fingers in long strokes down his torso and back while he rests his temple on your collarbone and kisses whatever his lips can reach.

“Thinking I might bring that date forward a few days,” he mumbles.

“Oh Don, I’d be honoured.”

He laughs into your skin, higher than you usually hear and you hug him for it, helping him curve you into his frame so he can hug you tight too.  There’s a pause while you both enjoy the feeling and you break the magic with some reality.

“Maybe we can talk about how you’re going to let me fight beside you, instead of behind,” you suggest, brushing the hair above his ear.

He does a big sigh, in and out, and tells you “Well, you just ramped up my protectiveness tenfold, Y/N.  Your plan may have backfired.”

“Not at all.  How are you going to deal with me wanting to protect you?”

He lifts his head with a face like _Don’t you fuckin’ dare._

“Do you actually like me?” you ask and try not to show your self-doubt. “Like, you know, would you-”

“Yes,” he says heavily.  “It’s been some time since I called it a crush.  I fucking like you,” he nods,  “…a lot.”

“Okay,” you smile, only a little bit giddy.  “So what kind of a woman d’you think you’d fall for? What kind of a hunter would she be?”

Dean chews his lips and looks guilty, like he doesn’t want to say what he knows, tilts his head while he watches his fingers trace lines, and pouts thoughtfully. After a while, his hand settles over your heart and he licks his lip again, giving the slightest shake of his head.

You pull him toward you, palms behind his ears, and kiss him full and warm.  “Okay baby. We’ll figure it out,” you whisper.  “We’ll figure out a way to keep each other safe.”  

He hugs you, pulls you up to crush you in his arms and silently, but clearly, tells you that you, sweetheart, are goddamn kidding yourself.


End file.
